Page 22 of Lessons in Lemonade

My vision changes, and now he’s standing at the top with one foot propped on a rock, his hands on his hips, staring out at the view in front of him. I laugh inwardly and say, “You’ll have to send me a picture later.”

“You know I will, and I expect one of the beef Wellington in return.”

“Of course.” I flip it over, and the sizzle sounds so good. “What is your mom making today?”

He chuckles. “If you mean what she picked up premade from Fresh Market, I think there’s some mashed potatoes and a green bean casserole in there.”

“No!” I start laughing.

He laughs with me. “Yep.”

“I’m so sorry. Now I’m kind of wishing you could ditch them and come here to have a real meal.”

“Why do you think I was so excited at Thanksgiving?” he asks.

“That’s just sad, Jack.”

“Tell me about it.”

Picking up my spoon to baste butter over the meat, I accidentally drop it on the floor, and as I bend over to pick it up, a flash of light pink and yellow hits my peripheral vision. Folded over the back of one of my kitchen chairs is an apron from Jack that showed up to the restaurant for Christmas. It was obvious he had wrapped it for me; to say I was shocked is an understatement, but there really isn’t a more perfect gift for me.

“Thank you again for the apron. I love it,” I tell him as I rinse the spoon off in the sink and move back to the stove. Tilting the pan, I scoop up the butter, pour it over the meat, and repeat.

“You already thanked me, and it’s nothing. I saw it, thought of you, and well, you did say over Thanksgiving how much you love aprons.”

The thoughtfulness from this guy over the last couple of months hasn’t gone unnoticed by me. In little ways, he always goes out of his way to make sure he’s at least said hello once a day, he comments on my photos, and recently, he’s started texting me good night.

“I guess I did. Where did you find it?” Feeling satisfied with the browning of the beef, I remove it from the pan, cut the ties, and set it aside to cool a bit.

“I can’t tell you all of my secrets,” he says. “What would be the fun in that?”

“You kill me.” Moving to the refrigerator, I grab the sheet pan with the prosciutto and a bottle of Dijon mustard.

“But in the best way, right?” Do I detect a little vulnerability in his voice? No, can’t be. Jack is the type of person who knows just who he is and is perfectly okay with it.

“Always. When do you fly home?” Using a rubber spatula, I smear the Dijon all over the meat.

“Tomorrow morning. We have light practice tomorrow night and then a full practice again the next morning. At least our game is at home this weekend.”

“You’re playing the Broncos?”

“Yep. We already beat them once, so we’re feeling pretty good about it.”

“They have a cute quarterback.”

“Meg . . .” Jack basically growls in warning, and I laugh.

“What?” I feign innocence. “There’s no way you don’t agree with me. I mean, look at him.”

“Looks can be deceiving. The guy is an asshole,” he states very matter-of-factly.

“That he might be, but his arms . . .” I drawl out. What is it about a guy’s arms that’s such a turn-on? From their shoulders to their hands, long, defined, and muscular, and so inviting.

“I have nice arms, too,” he says.

“Fishing for compliments?” I grin, knowing he doesn’t need compliments from me. He’s very proud of the way he looks.

“No, just stating the obvious. Tell me about your December date, and how does corned beef hash factor in?”